


Rewrite the stars

by withered



Series: Who's been lovin' you good? [55]
Category: Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: Cuddling, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Purple Prose, Tenderness, all the metaphors, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:55:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24217018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withered/pseuds/withered
Summary: James has always been a star collapsed – a black hole that takes and takes and takes.Ending up in Tony’s solar system had been a mistake, but that doesn’t stop James from wanting and wanting and wanting from craving and coveting and hoarding when Tony makes the mistake ofletting him.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark
Series: Who's been lovin' you good? [55]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/918138
Comments: 86
Kudos: 1084





	Rewrite the stars

**Author's Note:**

> This is a combination of about two? Maybe three? prompts I had on tumblr. They were separate ones but they were pretty short so I tried to combine them for this.

Hydra turns him into winters that are chilling and incendiary at once; they are tiny pinpricks of diamonds rubbing raw against naked skin and open wounds, sharp enough to tear through cells inch by inch.

James finds himself thawing slowly as a result, memories appearing in his mind’s eye like the wink of some distant star in the haze of his subconscious. He remembers trying to reach for the recollection it promised, and suffering the consequences of it.

When he meets Tony Stark, _really meets him._ Not his suit if armor. Not his designer persona. _Tony_.

James has to curl his fingers into his palms to keep his hands to himself, and to himself they stay.

James remembers the shooting star that is the Iron Man suit, all fire red and yellow gold, streaking across the sky; lighting up battlefields like a solar flare, a supernova. Its appearance is a warning, its impact is without equal.

James remembers the blue glow of the star in Tony’s chest.

His own aches with the phantom motion of his digging for it -- his inexplicable urge to claim it as he had the fragile memories just beyond his reach before Hydra would pull him away.

James won’t forget the lessons they taught him.

James won’t make Tony scared of him again.

But now that things are better, now that Tony’s let him into his home -- to the parts of the Compound reserved for his family, his friends, his trusted (and isn’t that something, that James has managed such an honor with their history) -- keeping his hands to himself is difficult.

Tony’s very existence is warmth itself, obvious in the molten whiskey of his eyes and the warm kiss of the sun against his skin, being pulled towards the gravity of him is only natural.

James has always been a star collapsed – a black hole that takes and takes and takes.

Ending up in Tony’s solar system had been a mistake, but that doesn’t stop James from wanting and wanting and wanting from craving and coveting and hoarding when Tony makes the mistake of _letting him_.

At first, it’s careless – a glance of a touch against the shoulder, a brush of the hand – they’re thoughtless things, breadcrumbs of contact.

Like Tony’s trying to slowly acclimatize James to his presence, unaware that James feels tethered to him, bound by an unseen string even to the point that when Tony sticks a mug beneath James’ nose, James, who has reacted violently to others in the past, doesn’t recoil in surprise.

“Smell,” Tony prompts.

And they’re standing so close, James doesn’t need to.

It’s coffee. It’s stale. Practically stone cold.

He obliges anyway, swaying towards the warmth that can only come from another person; expensive cologne and faded notes of caffeine unraveling beneath it like a flower that’s long since bloomed and is just basking in the sunshine. James lingers in it as if held in place by some magnetic force, practically breathing through his mouth as if to keep it in his lungs.

Tony lets him.

This close, James can catch a hint of freckles along Tony’s cheeks, his jaw; darker than his natural tone, but lighter than his eyes; like flicks of gold glitter, or stardust. There are lines that intersect them, making constellations in the imprints of Tony’s skin, some woven with age while others crisscross in indiscernible patterns from his most recent nap; a blueprint of his day underpinned by the roadmap of his life.

It makes Tony look both world weary and endearingly young.

He thinks he could count Tony’s freckles long enough to feel the same.

Then, just like that, Tony pulls away; yawns, wide and red. The corner of his eyes crinkle. His nose scrunches between his brows. His freckles inch to disappear.

And between one heartbeat and the next, his whole face slackens; mouth softening, lids weighted and gaze sleepy, sooty lashes fluttering like the wings of a black bird over the apple of his cheeks.

“Never mind,” Tony says, consonances slurring, smile careless. “I should probably get some rest anyway.”

Then, Tony reaches out and pats him amicably on the arm – the metal one – and says, “Time for bed, Wonderland” before Tony toddles off, leaving the lights on in his wake like he’s leaving a path open for him to follow. Not unlike the freckles that had darted out of sight beneath the flimsy collar of Tony’s favored Duran Duran shirt.

From then on, James helplessly oscillates from “no physical contact or I will murder you with my face”, glaring and growling to “all the physical contact, yes please” and crumbling beneath every invitation into Tony’s space.

When Tony realizes this, he’s _delighted_.

Beyond that single episode in the kitchen, Tony’s always careful about initiating contact – when he isn’t sleep deprived, Tony’s thoughtful and understands that James might have hang ups about that sort of thing, and always gives him time to turn away if he doesn’t want the contact.

Which is never. Obviously. 

James is classified as a scientific marvel, far be it for him to disrespect the logic that allowed him to exist in the same timeline as Tony.

But he has to at least _try_ and maintain some proprietary sort of distance, doesn’t he?

“I could hurt you,” James had tried to dissuade, though Tony only snorts, patting him on the shoulder again – the flesh one this time – and says, “Been there, done that. How about learning another parlor trick, Bucko?”

His hands flex at his sides, fighting the urge to snag Tony back – to pull him close – to _keep_ him.

Tony, though, reads it as something else and soothingly says, “How are you going to learn how to not hurt me – or anyone – if you don’t practice?”

He huffs out a breath and concedes to the logic of it because James hadn’t really wanted to say no to being around Tony in the first place, even though James knows it’s a bad idea to indulge the way he does.

And indulge he does, James' is a black hole after all, he's bad with impulse control.

“This is new,” Tony says when James is nuzzling into his shoulder a few days later. 

Tony doesn’t mind though.

He never does, James realizes belatedly. “Are you lonely?” he wonders, “Is that why you're okay with this?”

For an instant, Tony stiffens beneath James’ cheek, then, playfully, he teases, “Can’t a man just want some cuddles?”

“So that’s a yes?”

Squeezing the back of James’ neck in retaliation, James is putty beneath his palm and after a pause, Tony muses, “That’s…unexpected.”

“Problem?” he wonders aloud, sounding far away and floaty, but grounded by the feel of Tony’s chuckle murmuring against his skin.

“Not a bit.”

James hums, “And this?” He nuzzles further in demonstration.

“Have at it. There are worst things to do today then get loved on,” Tony says, fingers tangling with the strands at the nape of James’s head.

James huffs out a pleased purr, and presses in closer, lashes fluttering as something breaks inside his chest; seeping warmth into his bones and making him shiver from the contrast of it.

“Butterfly kisses too?” Tony asks in feigned shock, hand quick to soothe away the imagined cold. “Someone’s trying to be an overachiever.” A fact that is rewarded with a whisper of Tony’s fingernails against his scalp.

James sighs. “Butterfly kisses?” he murmurs in distraction, a beat behind, a question that is muffled against the curve of Tony’s cheek.

Tony’s laugh flutters over James’ temple. “Yeah, that. Butterfly kisses.”

Which is how James’ tenuous control collapses into itself: With Tony so close, they’re pulled irrevocably and irreversibly towards one another; James’ melting at his feet because Tony’s smile is radiant and his eyes are golden like sunsets over darkened ocean horizons; he’s a supernova in skin and James _aches._

At this angle, he can see a constellation of freckles dusting Tony’s neck, disappearing down his shirt.

He wants to follow their path.

Instead James’ moves enough to brush their noses together, and Tony’s hands wander – up and down his sides before gently feeling out the vertebrae of James’s spine – like he’s trying to catch the little shivers that’s dancing along James’ skin.

“That’s an Eskimo kiss,” Tony informs him, and there’s something ironic about that, James thinks.

But he doesn’t feel like laughing, not when his lashes are tangling with Tony’s, and not when this event horizon is nothing but the movement of Tony’s lips moving in sync against James’.

What happens when a black hole and a supernova collide?

James can’t wait to find out.

**Author's Note:**

> The hour is soft, and I am exhausted. 
> 
> I hope everyone's doing alright💕
> 
> As usual, if you'd like the pdf to the series, you can get it [here](https://everythingwithered.wordpress.com/2020/04/19/whos-been-lovin-you-good/) or you can [slide into my asks](https://everything-withered.tumblr.com)


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